Homecoming
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Did his feet lie flat on the floor like this always, and when he'd curled his toes, were the floorboards this cool?


Homecoming

Disclaimer: don't own

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Seeing the city come into focus through the plane window in the dark makes it almost unreal; he's only seen it from this angle a handful of times, when he went to visit his grandparents in Florida as a child before they died and that last time when he left, fists clenched and teeth grinding together; it had felt like a mistake and the seats beside him was empty because who takes the red eye out of LAX in late June to go to Japan? The loneliness had made him want to curl up like a child but he had just shut the shade and leaned against it and slept, kept his posture relaxed because even if he would never see these people again that was no excuse to let them see him cry.

He texts his mother as soon as he lands on the ground and his phone beeps several times; some of his teammates are also on the ground in their respective homes and they've mass-texted everyone; it's a ritual that last year made him bitter as the seniors returned but he was stuck in Akita for another year (he had responded with false vicarious joy to all of them) and now makes him feel a bit guilty—what about the ones who remain, homesick and stranded in the April snow? Perhaps they are better men than him; perhaps they do not dwell on this—and even so, will he text them again after today? Will they remember him as the years go by as more than a concept? Atsushi will, but he's already texted Tatsuya several times asking him if he's there yet, and Tatsuya's grin becomes forced after a few seconds. He misses him already, doubts him already—will they meet again? Will their friendship crumble away like snow on the curb, swept away in the gutter too gradually to properly pinpoint a moment for the tipping point? He texts Atsushi back and then the rest of the team; by the time he's finished typing and retyping the next message both Atsushi and his mother have replied. His mother says that they'll be at the baggage claim; Atsushi's reply is a bit more cryptic (well, if Tatsuya is playing dense).

"Muro-chin better not be thinking stupid things again."

Atsushi knows him too well; he shouldn't underestimate him as much as he does—he's a terrible friend, isn't he? Why does Atsushi keep him around? And now he's wallowing in self-pity again; it's sick; he's sick. Why can't they just open the doors and let everyone off already? Getting up will occupy him somehow; he'll be distracted by a world beyond the plane; even the window is only a dark spot now that the cabin lights are on and he shuts it, stuffing his jacket in his backpack.

The captain welcomes them and tosses out the time and temperature in a crisp speech and at this point Tatsuya's barely listening, gathering up his crap from the seat pocket in front of him and the overhead compartment. The aisles are not crowded; perhaps fewer people take the midweek red eye in April from Tokyo than they do the reverse direction in June (and a disproportionate amount of the people on this flight were also on the earlier flight from Akita to Tokyo) and it's not hard to walk to the front of the plane and get the hell out of there; even in the tunnel the air is warm and familiar and it hits him hard enough to slow his pace for just a few seconds.

Once he gets into the terminal he picks up speed; only a few shops are open but it feels almost welcoming. He stops to buy a cup of coffee; he has to dig out the wad of dollars that have been buried in his backpack for two years—it's more expensive than he remembered, but it figures; the weight of the change the barista presses into his hand is odd and he dumps them quickly in the tip jar before he can fully process that thought.

His parents are waiting as promised at the baggage claim; he embraces them tightly and they're scrutinizing him carefully but then again he's doing the same to them—his mother's face is more wrinkled and she looks even more tired than usual; his father's hairline is receding further and he, too, looks weary—they are getting older, older than he is comfortable with them being, older than middle-aged, still older than they look but looking older every day. He bites his lip; at least they seemed pleased with him. There's not much to say waiting for his suitcase like this; they've kept in touch during the time he's been away—he spots the large blue bag and hauls it off the carousel; this is it. Just his backpack and his two suitcases, that's all this part of his life reduces to—and he's okay with that. He stretches out in the backseat of his mother's car (it was almost brand new two years ago, but now it smells vaguely like French fries and generic air freshener and there are old gardening gloves and tissue boxes on the seat beside him and it resembles a lame imitation of her old car; his father tilts the passenger seat back and fiddles with the radio as his mother sighs and keeps her eyes on the road.

His bedroom is just the way he left it only dustier and he sinks into this mattress deeper than he's ever sunk into the ones in the dorms; the loneliness of the peeling baseball posters on the wall of players who are now footnotes in Dodgers history clutches at his stomach and he curls up into himself, hunkering down among the pillows and blankets and squeezing his eyes tighter to combat the emptiness.

When he wakes up the midmorning sun is too harsh in his eyes but he immediately remembers where he is; he sits up and takes in the scene, the shadows across the floor and the books in his bookcase and the unplugged lava lamp on his desk make him feel odd, unsettled, like he's stepped into some sort of bizarro-world imitation of his bedroom. He can't say what's off, can't quite remember now how it used to be, coming home after school and flopping on his bed—did it feel like this? Did the mattress creak like this? Did his feet lie flat on the floor like this always, and when he'd curled his toes, were the floorboards this cool?

He walks downstairs; his parents are already at work and he slips on his boots, still stained from the road salt in Akita, and walks out onto the driveway. The crunch of the gravel is familiar, echoing in his ears comfortably, and the sidewalk under his feet is solid enough for him to trust it with his weight. The bodega on the corner is boarded up; the faded pink awning is still attached to the building but the door is bolted and what's behind it is irrelevant—Tatsuya hadn't really liked their sandwiches, anyway, but something catches in his throat and he stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. The street is relatively quiet; most people aren't out in a residential neighborhood in the middle of the day—it's lonely.

There are people he could call or text, people who have called and texted him and asked when he's coming home, people he could cling to right now, but he'll save that for later. Right now he's not good company, and right now he's savoring the loneliness—he knows he's more than a little bit of a masochist, more than a little bit selfish, always trying to free himself from the clutches of the past—but today he won't struggle with it; he's too jet-lagged and he needs to sort things out with this city on his own terms, try to find a rough approximation of where he fits in now—he's changed since he's been gone and so has the city, in abruptly different directions.

A car whizzes by, and Tatsuya just picks up the thump of the bass line from the stereo before it's gone, leaving his ears ringing with the echo. And he begins to walk again, face pointed away from the ground this time.


End file.
